Fallout 4: Reflections (MacCready POV) - Part 1
by Tatosauce
Summary: A year after the destruction of the Institute by the Railroad and the Sole Survivor of Vault 111, the Commonwealth is changing. The Minutemen have expanded, the Railroad moves its focus from liberating synths to the promotion of their unification into society, and the overall climate shifts into one of cautious optimism and progress. Robert MacCready, gun for hire, hasn't quite fig


Sleep slips away from MacCready again, chased off by that familiar feeling of hyper-awareness and suspicion he's honed after years of ambushes and bad decisions. He's never been a heavy sleeper, even in the safest of circumstances, though he's always considered that an advantage. He'd rather be tired and alive than well-rested with a blade in his throat.

It's a little before dawn, MacCready surmises from the lavender tint of the light in the room. A dog barks in the distance. He lies motionless, evaluating. He'd set himself up in a room in the southeast corner of the Castle, nestled in the rickety second story recently erected by the Minutemen. It's more like a closet, really, with just enough room for his cot, his bag, and his rifle, but he feels secure here, up above everyone else, where he can see and hear everything. A shout—short, with a ring of inquiry—rises over the barking, but there's no hint of panic or alarm in it. Not an outright attack, then—at least, not yet. The dog—Dogmeat, he realizes now that his brains are catching up with his consciousness, continues his dutiful alarm. MacCready detects the faint buzz of excited voices under the barking, though he can't make out what they're saying. He closes his eyes in an attempt to focus his hearing, taking into consideration the different sounds, their distance from him, the temperature and intensity of the breeze wafting through his open window and the echo from the concrete walls beneath him. After he parses the various pieces in his mind, he easily hears the click of the front gate mechanism.

He's out of bed and at the window in a heartbeat, thanks more to the size of the room than any agitation on his part—that's what he tells himself, anyway. The window is a one-by-one block positioned to face the shoreline, perfect for a defensive sniping position against a coastal attack, but not so great for assisting in the event of a frontal assault. A dim, rosy sky and the slate gray ocean greets him, but if he presses himself against the wall on the left, he can see the left side of the gate slowly opening, pushed by a Minuteman night sentry. A second lurches into view behind him, yelling at someone out of view while struggling to hang onto an excited German Shepherd. It isn't long before Dogmeat proves too energetic for his handler and breaks free, bolting out of the gate, barking like mad. The Minuteman throws his hands in the air, defeated. As he leans closer to the window, MacCready notices, with some annoyance, the thumping of his heart against his chest. _Relax_ , he tells himself. As he watches the first sentry sprint back into the courtyard and toward the nearest entrance to the Castle proper, another thin figure in a trench coat limps through the gate. At the sight of the crumpled fedora and unmistakable pallor of the detective, Nick Valentine, MacCready's stomach drops a few inches in his gut. His eyes, however, don't linger long on the synth detective—they shoot back to the open gate, while his ears tune out everything but the sound of the dog barking. Both of his hands are gripping, practically crushing the frame of the window, but he doesn't care. He'd push the entire wall out and climb on top of the building if it meant he could see, he could know, rather than face these next few seconds of anticipation. Normally waiting is easy for him. It's part of the job: park it somewhere, sit, and wait for the right moment. Squeeze the trigger, collect the caps, and go home. Simple. At least it used to be, before they'd blown up the world. Again.

As the seconds tick by, he considers racing down the stairs and into the courtyard, guns blazing, when another figure appears in the gateway, orbited by an elated, bouncing Dogmeat. When he spots the blue jumpsuit he releases the window frame, only to grab it again to steady himself from the wave of relief that leaves him swaying on his feet. He exhales—he hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath—and laughs.

She's back.

Before he knows what he's doing, he's feeling around the floor for his shoes, his eyes still fixed on her. She's a day early. Twelve days down, twelve days back, two to get the job done. The best case scenario would've brought her back tomorrow night. Either the job went really well, or something happened. He narrows his eyes, focusing in on her as he stomps his feet into his shoes. She's a little further into the courtyard now, crouched down in front of Dogmeat. He knows she's exhausted, he can see it in her stance and in the clumsy way she slides her hand over the dog's back. Nick approaches her and says something, gesturing toward a canvas bag on the ground next to her, but she waves him off. MacCready notes more clearly Nick's limp as he walks out of the view of the window, concern growing in his mind. Synths don't limp like humans do. A human limps to avoid the pain of pressure on the affected limb; you see that pain in their face as they move, you see the avoidance of excess strain, the shift in weight toward the stronger side. A synth, at least a Gen 2 model like Nick, isn't limited by the inconvenience of pain; they limp solely because they have to, because something is broken or out of alignment. The effect is almost bizarre: there's no change in facial expression, no behavior modification—they just keep going forward, unflinching, stomping on that broken part. While a crippled human is pitiful, a crippled synth is unnerving—even one MacCready considers a friend. Although he can't pin all the blame on the detective for his unease, not after everything that'd happened, and not with the General back from The Pit so early.

He means to head downstairs, but he lingers in the window, watching her, instead. She gives Dogmeat a final generous scratching on the top of his head, and then she stands up. Planting her hands on her hips, she stretches her body back into a shallow, backward C. She's lost weight, he notices. It must've been a hard three weeks. The realization ignites a spark of anger and disappointment in him, one he's been fighting down for nearly a month. He wonders if it's been weighing on her too: their last conversation before she left. It's selfish, he knows—as if keeping herself alive on a three week hike through the Glowing Sea and the Wastes hasn't weighed heavily enough on her already. Still, now that she's back, now that the majority of his thoughts aren't dedicated to her whereabouts or her safety, maybe he can spare one to selfishness.

As she straightens out, she reaches for the strap under her chin to remove her helmet, the one he hates. He thinks it makes her look like a cartoon character—a bulbous off-white thing she'd picked up during her stint in the Institute, before she'd sided with the Railroad. He'd have chucked it in Old Gullet Sinkhole months ago if it weren't as useful as it is silly; the light, ultra-hard nanofiliment construction can withstand a .50 caliber shot at less than a hundred yards. They may not have had a lick of fashion sense, but the Institute knew their armor. Her messy brown hair spills onto her shoulders, matted and wet with the sweat and dirt of a long journey. She drops the helmet on the ground and looks up at the walls surrounding her. Her eyes scan the perimeter of the Castle, taking in the whole place like a deep breath. As her gaze passes his window, she stops. He can't make out her expression, but he knows she's looking at him, somehow, through all the distance and the dim light, and any lingering anger within him evaporates. Despite everything, she always finds him.

He deliberates over the first thing he'll say to her as he hurries down the stairs, one arm in his coat, the other blindly stabbing behind him toward an elusive sleeve. Something funny, but smooth—and chiding, definitely chiding-he's earned that much. But just a little, enough to crack a smile; if the trip was rough, too much teasing wouldn't go over well. Maybe he'd comment on her early arrival and bring up his own, play it off like she'd meant to get home before him and failed. _Tried to beat me back, huh? And deprive me of my touching welcome home speech?_ He smiles. That would work. She'd grin and ask to hear it, and he'd shake his head and say, _No, no, you've ruined the moment now_. Later he'd come up with something sweet to tell her, to whisper in her ear when they were in her bed, away from everyone else, her head resting against his arm, his hand on her stomach, tracing a line with his fingertips down to—

A hard mass slams into him near the bottom of the stairs, knocking the warm, happy thoughts out of his head. The force of the collision sends the responsible party stumbling backward into the light of the corridor beneath him, revealing a cursing woman in a red trench coat.

"Jesus, MacCready," Piper says, clutching the doorway to steady herself. "Glad I wasn't further up the stairs."

"Sorry," he mumbles as he descends into the corridor, where he finally pulls his left arm through his sleeve. The Castle's a mess of activity, with Minutemen poking their heads out of alcoves and calling to each other while in various stages of dressing. Piper must have just rolled out of bed herself; she's only had time to throw her coat on over her long johns and stuff her disheveled hair under her faded press hat. He isn't surprised to find her in the middle of all the chaos. She's a reporter. She thrives "in the middle of it." Though he's having trouble wrapping his head around what "it" is right now, exactly; he's as excited as everyone else at the General's arrival, but this commotion seems a little over the top. He tries to sound polite with her; he knows better than to upset the General's best friend on the day of her return.

"What's going on, Piper?" he asks.

"We're meeting in the War Room," she says. "Now."

He frowns. "Good for you," he replies, abandoning any attempt at politeness as he turns to leave. He's spent the last few days dodging her requests to meet with the rest of her bright-eyed, ragtag team to tackle missions— _unpaid_ missions—for the Commonwealth. He has no intention to start _now_ , of all times. Before he can walk away, however, Piper grabs his arm.

" _All_ of us," she says, her voice stern. "That includes you."

" _Now?_ " He replies, exasperated. He tries to shake off her grip, but she won't budge. "Come on, Piper. Let me go." Normally the whining plea in his voice would embarrass him, but he's in a rush. "She's back."

"Uh yeah," Piper replies. "Duh. Who do you think called the meeting?"

He takes a place against the wall, next to the door. He could follow Piper to the table, but he's in no mood to socialize. He wants this meeting to be over as soon as possible. He's never been comfortable in the War Room; in no other place in the Castle—the world, possibly—does he feel more like an outsider. He liked it better when it served as the barracks of the complex, back when only a half-dozen or so Minutemen were stationed here. After the downfall of the Institute, however, their numbers exploded. With the constant fear of abduction and synth invasion eliminated, the people of the Commonwealth were suddenly more inclined—eager, even—to lend a hand. Though MacCready always suspected the prospect of catching a glimpse of the General—Sole Survivor from Vault 111, hero of the Railroad, and the alleged driving force behind the Institute's destruction—may have been the bigger motivator. In any case, their numbers swelling, the Minutemen launched a huge expansion project for the Castle: upgraded electricity, plumbing, and a brand new second story where they relocated the living quarters and mess hall for the soldiers. They converted the old mess hall into an impressive hospital facility, with its own staff and director, while the barracks became the War Room, a dedicated space for strategy meetings and assemblies. Benches and chairs line the perimeter of the room, meant for the general populace of the fortress at large, with the table in the center reserved for officers, noteworthy visitors, and of course, the General herself.

Right now, however, with the room occupied only by her closest friends and allies, MacCready surmises the General isn't ready to share her news—whatever it is—with everyone yet. While the rest of the Minutemen bustle about in the corridors outside, only the venerable Ronnie Shaw, impeccably dressed in her military fatigues, sits among the group at the table's far end. To her left, the highest ranking members of the Railroad take up an entire side of the table. Tinker Tom and Desdemona bicker in front of a terminal, while Deacon looks on, yawning in that ridiculous blue bathrobe he found who knows where. MacCready's still getting used to seeing them in the Castle now that they've established their second location in the tunnels beneath the facility. The Railroad's preference for subterranean locations might seem odd to some, but MacCready empathizes. He knows from experience the comfort and security an underground location offers. That preference, however, is the only thing he shares in common with them; they're a little too rigid in their ideals for his taste. Deacon gives Piper a short wave as she takes the seat across from him. Curie, the new head of the Castle medical facility, is seated next to her. After the two women exchange a warm greeting, Curie looks over at him.

"You will not sit, Monsieur MacCready?" she asks. His name sounds awful in her accent, but her smile, too bright and too enthusiastic to be anything but genuine, makes up for it. How she's maintained that childlike optimism and curiosity in spite of everything she's seen and experienced, he doesn't understand, but he does appreciate; with cynicism and mistrust so rampant in the Commonwealth, Curie's personality provides a refreshing alternative, and he isn't the only one who thinks so. Plenty of Minutemen protested the appointment of a synth in a position overseeing their health and well-being, even with the Institute gone. The Railroad's publicity campaigns, though extensive, just weren't—and still aren't—enough to overcome the decades of paranoia cemented by the Institute. The General insisted, however, and Curie moved in. Those first few weeks were hard for her, working through the subtle remarks, pranks, and at times even open hostility of the men and women she was trying to help, but she met it all with positivity and her signature sweetness. Combined with that personality, her talent for saving lives on the operating table clinched her acceptance among the Minutemen in a few short months, and the same soldiers who'd harassed and belittled her in her first week are now the first to slap a rookie for making a rude comment about her. MacCready had overheard Desdemona once say that in six months Curie accomplished more for synth acceptance than anything the Railroad had done in the entire span of its existence.

Macready returns her smile, but shakes his head and leans back against the stone wall. There's really only one free chair left open anyway, the one directly in front of him at the head of the table, and everyone knows who sits there. He likes being by the door; it feels safer, and he can see more of the room. As he looks to his left, he finds the Irish brawler, Cait, shares his preference. She takes the spot on the opposite side of the door, her hands clasped behind her, a vacant expression on her face. She looks as ragged and unkempt as everyone else, but she always looks that way. She raises her eyebrows at him in a greeting, and he nods back. He doesn't mind Cait so much. She's crazy, but at least she's straightforward.

An anxious silence falls over the room. MacCready knows what they're thinking and feeling: excitement at her return, curiosity about what she found, concern at the urgency of the meeting and the activity of the Minutemen. He feels all of it and more. How will she look at him, he wonders, when she sees him again? Did she make a decision in all that time she was gone? Has she even thought about it? His thoughts are interrupted, however, by a frustrated groan and the _whack_ of Tinker Tom's hand against the monitor of his computer.

"Man, how'd I ever get this thing to work in the first place? It's a piece of junk," he whines as his fingers clack furiously against the keyboard.

"Why'd you bring it then?" Piper asks, amused.

"The General wanted the terminal he used to crack the teleporter encryption," Desdemona explains.

"Does that mean Madame has found something?" Curie asks. The conversation continues at the table, but MacCready doesn't hear it—his ear catches the sound of a lopsided, clanging stride, and two hushed voices arguing somewhere down the corridor behind him. He tips his head toward the doorway to hear.

"I'm telling you, we don't have to do this now," a voice says. MacCready recognizes the sharp, nasal tones of Nick Valentine. "Let it go until tomorrow, after you get some—"

"It can't wait, Nick," comes the blunt reply, and MacCready's pulse quickens. It's the first time he's heard her voice in a month. They have to be just a few yards down the hall. "We need to know what's on this thing right now."

"Just—hold up a second, will ya?" Nick says. The steps stop; he must have caught hold of her arm. MacCready hears her irritated sigh, and he smiles. _So stubborn_ , he thinks.

"I understand how you feel, kid," the synth continues. "I do. I hate those bastards just as much as you do. But you gotta slow down, before you kill yourself." His voice drops suddenly, and MacCready strains to make out the next part: "Three days, no sleep. You've barely eaten anything. I ain't human, but I know that ain't healthy. Or safe, even for you. At least let someone take a look at that wound-"

"Nick, it's fine."

As MacCready's eyes widen at the disclosure, he notices Cait, flanking the other side of the door, cock an eyebrow. She's listening, too. Their eyes meet, just for an instant, until the General responds.

"Look, I appreciate your concern. Really. But there's a whole Commonwealth I'm responsible for, one that'd already been through hell before I put it back through it again. If we have a new threat to deal with, we have to know what it is as soon as possible. I owe that to everybody."

"And how are you gonna pay that debt if you've dropped dead from exhaustion? Or worse?"

Another sigh, followed by a pause. "Let's just get through this, alright? As soon as we know what we're dealing with, I'll rest. I promise. Okay?"

"Okay," Nick replies, his voice heavy with skepticism.

Both MacCready and Cait straighten up just as the two of them walk—limp, in Nick's case—through the door, and the entire room erupts in excitement. Suddenly everybody's out of their seats and surrounding the newcomers. MacCready takes a step forward to join them and freezes. It's not any particular sentimentality that keeps him away, or the shock of seeing her up close for the first time in so long, or even the sudden rush of people moving toward her. It's the melon-sized bloodstain on the back of her jumpsuit.

The majority of it is obscured by the back of her chestpiece, which he guesses she's wearing for the sole purpose of hiding it. It's working; nobody else, not even Cait, seems to notice the half-inch shadow surrounding it. Piper and Curie throw their arms around her, nearly knocking the canvas bag she's holding out of her hands. Deacon and Tinker Tom greet her with a high-five and shake Nick's hand. Even Desdemona offers her a short handshake, the closest thing to warmth she's ever shown to anyone.

"How are things at headquarters?" the General asks her.

"Carrington's got things under control at the Church," Desdemona replies. "We're glad you're back."

As Desdemona retreats to her seat, Cait peels herself from the wall. She flashes a half-smile at the General before reaching an arm around her shoulders and planting a kiss on her cheek.

"You look like shite," she says as she pulls away.

"Thanks, Cait," she laughs.

Cait winks at MacCready as she makes her way back to the door. The General shakes her head, and then she looks at him; he meets her eyes with his own, smiles, but he can't bring himself to go to her. He's traveled with her enough to know a few things about that jumpsuit, how the advanced fibers of the fabric repel moisture, pull bodily fluids away from the wearer's skin and release it out through the suit's exterior for easy disposal. He's watched her simply wipe blood out of it before—someone else's, more often than not—too many times to count, but never enough to set a stain. How much blood would that take? MacCready remembers the concern in Nick's voice out in the hall, and worry starts to set in.

She does a damn good job of maintaining composure, but he wouldn't expect anything less from her. She greets everyone with as much enthusiasm as she can muster as she approaches her seat and places her bag down on the table—carefully, MacCready notices.

"It's good to see so many of you here," she says. "I know we're early. Who are we missing?"

"Hancock's still in Goodneighbor, due back tonight," Piper says. "We didn't expect you back this soon, Blue."

"We caught some luck," she replies, without a shred of concern in her voice. "Made really good time on the way home." It seems a reasonable enough answer to the rest of the group, but not to MacCready.

"General," Ronnie Shaw announces in her husky voice. She hasn't moved from her spot at the other side of the table, but then affectionate homecomings have never been one of her defining personality traits. "We've stationed additional sentries in the towers for the next few shifts, per your request. Are you expecting visitors?"

"It's just a precaution," the General responds. "I'll explain later."

"Have some trouble on the road?" MacCready asks, watching her carefully.

She turns her head slightly toward him. She looks paler than usual—odd for someone traveling out in the sun for three weeks. "Nothing we couldn't handle," she says, but MacCready isn't looking at her anymore, he's watching Nick. Not the synth's expression—his model doesn't really have those. But that intent stare he's fixed on her—it's as close as he comes to showing real concern. She's not telling them something.

She returns her attention to Ronnie. "I didn't see Preston. Where is he?"

Despite his anxiety, a bubble of anger rises up in MacCready's chest. The room quiets down, and several members of the group find themselves fascinated by the stones in the floor.

"Garvey headed back to Sanctuary Hills, ma'am," Ronnie replies. "Ghoul troubles again. He asked me to attend in his place."

"He went himself? When?"

"Left yesterday morning," Ronnie says, unconcerned. "Seemed in a hurry."

MacCready shifts his weight, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Was it that serious?" the General asks.

"Probably not as serious as the jaw pain," Deacon says.

MacCready glares at him. He knows the self-satisfied grin on the sneak's face, the one he wears when he's about to cause trouble. "Deacon," he warns, but it's already too late. Deacon had laid the bait, and she senses the trap—even if she doesn't know who it's meant for.

"Jaw pain?" she asks. The suspicion is obvious in her voice. _There goes the bait_ , MacCready thinks. _Now the hammer falls on my head_.

"Yeah, from the knuckle sandwich MacCready gave him the other night."

Cait snickers, and Piper rolls her eyes. He can practically feel the discomfort settle over everybody else, but the only opinion that concerns him is the one belonging to the woman in front of him. She keeps her back to him, but he knows her posture, her reactions. She's closing her eyes, trying not to shake her head, trying not to show her anger in front of everyone. She doesn't turn around, just tiredly asks over her shoulder, "Seriously?"

"Hey, he started it," he replies with a shrug.

She winces and turns away. "We don't have time for this." She directs her attention back to Ronnie Shaw. "What about Strong?"

"We sent a runner with a message to Trinity Tower like you asked," Ronnie replies. "He couldn't get into the tower—something kept sniping at him from above. He shouted the instructions and hightailed it out of there. Best we could do. We haven't seen any sign of the super mutant since."

"Does that thing actually come when you call it?" Deacon asks.

"It's probably for the best," Ronnie continues. "We don't have the facilities to house him. Not to mention the panic he'd cause—"

"OK that's enough," their leader says, cutting her off. "Let's get started." MacCready can't tell if she's angry or just in a rush. She pulls out the chair at the head of the table and takes her seat, and everyone else follows suit with the exception of Piper. She offers her seat to Nick.

"I'm fine, Piper," he says. "Not like I need it."

"Just humor a girl, would ya?" she responds, tapping the top of the chair. Nick grumbles in protest, but he eventually sits down. Piper takes a spot against the adjacent wall, and everyone else returns to their original positions.

MacCready retakes his place by the door, fighting the urge to rip the smug grin from Deacon's face. How did he even know about his fight with Garvey? They were far beyond the Castle walls when Preston started running his mouth. Although when he thinks about it, he shouldn't be surprised Deacon was keeping tabs on them; he keeps tabs on everybody. But did he have to announce it to the room, the moment she got back? This wasn't turning out at all like the tender homecoming MacCready wanted. Still, he wouldn't take back what he'd done. That punch felt swell.

"So," their leader begins, "most of you know Nick and I were following a lead we found during the salvage of the Institute site, tracking a courser that'd been dispatched before we..."

"…blew the place to kingdom come?" Deacon offers.

She pauses, the way she does when she's irritated, and MacCready inwardly rejoices. "Many of you don't know why," she continues. "Why don't you recap the details for everybody, Desdemona?"

"In the Institute wreckage," Desdemona begins, addressing the entire room, "we unearthed what we believed was a private terminal used for external communications by the Director of the Institute, known internally as Father. I believe all of you are aware Father also turned out to be the General's adult son, Shaun."

MacCready cringes at his name. Shaun may have been her son genetically, but nothing they knew about the man resembled anything in the woman sitting among them, the one who watched the Institute pry her infant son from her husband's dead hands before they locked her back in her cryogenic prison. Shaun was fully indoctrinated into the Institute's ways and methods when they finally reunited, a full sixty years later, when he was dying of cancer. And if it weren't for that grim diagnosis and whatever end-of-life crisis he was experiencing, would he have even bothered releasing her from that vault? How much longer would he have kept his mother on ice? MacCready always doubted Shaun's motives for reuniting with his mother. Rather than spending his final weeks getting to know her or trying to make up for that lost time, Shaun tried to recruit her; he lectured her on the Institute's ideology, sent her on surface missions, pushed her to network with other division heads, even established her as the new Director. Even if he weren't the acting head of a secret organization known to abduct people and swap them with synthetic replacements, MacCready could never forgive Shaun for treating her that way.

She'd given him the details of her mission before she left, including the lead from Shaun's terminal, but even hearing it for the second time—how this man's actions are still affecting them, that their fight might not yet be over—still makes him uneasy.

"Didn't you already scope out his terminal when you were in there, Blue?" Piper asks.

"I did," the General replies. "This was a separate machine, hidden in a compartment I hadn't found."

"The guy was careful. Paranoid, even," Tinker Tom breaks in. "Which I can appreciate. We know from the hardware he was talking to someone outside the Institute, but he'd wipe the hard drive after every transmission."

"With the exception of one," Desdemona adds. "A one-line message, sent from an unknown party to Father on the day we took the Institute down. It said, 'Arrived at destination. Awaiting relay.'"

"We ran the findings through PAM," Deacon says. "She lit up like a Christmas tree. Calculated 85% probability that the message originated from a courser out in the field."

"Doing what?" Piper asks.

"That's what we wanted to know," the General replies. "Tinker Tom was able to track the location of the message—"

"Worked a miracle, would be a more accurate statement," Tom interrupts. "They hacked a _satellite_ , in _space_ , to grant that terminal external communication capabilities. Are we not gonna talk about that?"

"Later," the General replies, undeterred. "Tom tracked the message to a lab at a university in Pittsburgh—The Pit, I mean. That's what everyone calls it now."

"What was it like?" Piper asked, reaching into her jacket to retrieve a small notebook. "The Pit? I've heard stories—"

"Maybe the exclusive can wait until later, Piper?" Nick interrupts.

"Right," she says, setting the notebook down on the bench next to her. "Sorry."

The General continues. "The plan was to locate the courser, if there was one, and establish what assignment Father had given it."

"And did you find him?" Desdemona asks.

"What was left of him," Nick blurts out, before the General can answer.

"He was dead, then?" Cait asks. She sounds disappointed.

Nick looks over his shoulder at her. "More like dismantled," he replies.

The General reaches for the canvas bag in front of her. "Nick is right," she says, "it was in pieces, torn apart, but it was still functional, still…" she breaks off.

Nick finishes the thought for her. "Conscious."

Several members of the group shudder. Even MacCready's lip curls into a disgusted scowl.

"How terrible," Curie murmurs.

"Jesus," Desdemona says. "What could do something like that? Tear a courser apart? A Deathclaw?"

"Whatever it was," Nick replies, "the courser said it moved to fast for it to see."

"You talked to it?" Desdemona asks. "The courser?"

"It hadn't been updated on the situation at the Institute since it left," the General explains. "It was still calling me 'ma'am.' I was able to convince him I'd come to complete his mission after he'd gone missing. He told me where I could find this," she says, producing a bright blue holotape from her bag, "in his remains." She places it on the table in front of her.

"Wait, like _in_ his remains?" Deacon asks, interested.

"I'm not going into the details," she replies firmly. "Anyway, it's encrypted. Neither of us could hack it on my PipBoy or any of the functional terminals we could find. Tom, you've broken through their code before. I need you to crack this for us as soon as possible." She slides the holotape across the table, where Tom snatches it up in his hands.

"Another Institute Easter Egg to bust open? Tinker Tom is on the case!" He plugs the holotape into his console and sets to work, his fingers rapidly clicking against the keyboard.

"That wasn't the only thing he gave us," Nick adds. He looks at the General. "You wanna show them what else is in the bag?"

With a nod, the General pulls the bag along the table, closer to her. She carefully unfolds the flaps of fabric, revealing a football-sized shell with a red tip on its nose. The group gawks at it in stunned silence.

"A Mini-nuke?" Ronnie asks, shocked.

"Well that's… disconcerting," Deacon says.

"At least he didn't get the chance to use it," Nick says. "Consider it a little present for the armory, Ronnie. Many happy returns."

"Much obliged," Ronnie says. Standing up, she walks around the table toward the General. "If you all don't mind, I'm going to transport this somewhere a little more appropriate than a conference room." Reaching over the table, she scoops the bomb up in her hands. She holds it at arm's length as she walks past MacCready and through the door. "I'll check back in with you later, General," she calls out as she disappears.

"What happened to the courser?" Curie asks.

The General hesitates, taking a breath before answering. "I asked him what he wanted me to do. He said if there wasn't anything else, he would prefer I remove him from duty."

Silence falls over the room again, with the exception of Tom's typing, and even that slows to a respectable speed. Everyone understands her meaning.

"Were there any signs of Institute activity at the university?" Desdemona asks. "Research? New technology?"

The General shakes her head. "Not that we could find, apart from the courser. We turned the whole place upside down. There were a few radio signals, but we didn't have the equipment to analyze them."

"Could be they've got another teleporter somewhere," Deacon suggests.

"What about the lab where the message originated? Did you find it?" Desdemona asks.

"Oh we found it," Nick replies. "It was worse off than the courser. The whole lab was destroyed—all the terminals and equipment smashed, wiring torn to shreds. Whatever hit it was thorough."

"New best friend, you think?" Deacon asks. "Someone who hates them as much as we do?"

"I doubt it," Nick replies. "We—"

"You gotta be kidding me!" Tom cries suddenly, cutting him off. He gapes at the screen for a second before continuing his frenzied typing. "This is unbelievable!"

"What is it?" the General asks. "You can't crack it?"

"It's already cracked, man!" he replies, not looking up. "Those idiots used the same encryption as the one on the courser chip we used to build the teleporter. Patriot wasn't kidding when he said their digital security was crap. It took me longer to get this thing up the stairs." Slapping one last button on the keyboard, he spins the terminal back toward the rest of the table with a flourish. The rest of Nick and the General's story will have to wait; the entire group turns their attention to Tom and his terminal. He turns a knob at the base of the screen, and a burst of static erupts from the terminal's speakers. The static fizzles for a few seconds before shifting into a high-pitched buzz, and then a voice begins to speak. Though most of them have never heard it before, based on the way their leader sits up in her chair and stares at the screen, they all recognize it.

Shaun.

" _I have been patient_ ," he is saying. MacCready had never met the man, had never heard his voice. It's more delicate than he expected, quiet—meek, even. It makes his skin crawl.

" _Far more patient than any other man would be in this situation. I've given you time, power, defended your actions to the board_ —"

"He isn't talking to you, Blue, is he?" Piper asks, looking over at the General, but her friend says nothing. Her eyes are glued to the terminal, as if she can see Shaun there on the screen, talking to her.

" _And yet you refuse to take responsibility, to make things right._ "

 _When did he record this_? MacCready wonders. Before the explosion, obviously. Was he onto her then? If so, why didn't he stop her before she let the Railroad into the facility?

" _You have stolen from me. Not from the Institute, from_ me _. And what you took, it's so definitively personal, so innately mine. It_ is _me. How you could use me in this way, after everything…_ "

Shaun's voice fades out for a moment, and MacCready narrows his eyes. This doesn't sound right anymore. She never took anything from him personally—well, apart from his life, anyway. Did he know that was going to happen? If so, why not just tell her in person, before she blew the place up? Why send her to the Pit on a scavenger hunt?

" _I want you to understand something_ ," Shaun continues, apparently regaining composure. " _I forgive you. You have my full and free forgiveness for what you've done, and you always will. But that forgiveness will not save you_."

MacCready could kick himself for standing here, behind her, where he can't see her face, know what she's feeling. He takes a step forward, outstretches his arm—

" _This will be my final warning. You will give me the boy and destroy what remains of what you stole_."

MacCready stops, his hand dangling in the air. Boy? What boy?

" _You will do this immediately upon your receipt of this message. XV-87 has been charged to confirm your adherence to these instructions and to return to our facility with the boy. We have taken measures to provide you with a synthetic substitute until a suitable disposal can be arranged._ "

"Not little Shaun?" Curie asks.

No one replies, but they all know the answer. The Institute only created one child synth—a replicate of Shaun at the age of ten, presented as a gift—a complicated, wildly inappropriate gift—to the General as she left the Institute for the last time. So the little guy wasn't created as a clumsy attempt at closure, MacCready realizes. Shaun had another purpose in mind for him all along.

" _I trust you can fabricate a scenario that minimizes questions from your people. Human beings are so fragile, after all. But you and I know that better than anyone else, don't we, Brother?_ "

Every mouth in the room drops open, including MacCready's. _Brother_?

"You got another kid we don't know about?" Deacon asks the General.

"Shut up, Deacon," MacCready and Nick say in unison.

" _I am running out of time_ ," Shaun continues, " _as you will soon be, yourself. I can no longer defend you to the board. However, if you comply with these demands, I can save your life—what remains of it—and the lives of your scientists. If you fail to do so, or show any sign of resistance, XV-87 has been instructed to detonate the nuclear device he currently carries with him._ "

"Holy shit," Deacon says.

"Guess that explains the mini-nuke," Nick says to the General. She doesn't look at him. She hasn't moved since the tape began.

" _You know how irksome I find the spilling of innocent blood_ ," Shaun says. " _I implore you, therefore, to accept these conditions—for the sake of your people if not for your own. Our organizations were meant to operate in tandem, not in conflict. It is the sole purpose for our continued existence on this Earth. You and I, working together, in perfect synchronization, toward a better future for humanity. That is our only reason for being, Brother. Please, I beg of you, don't throw away all we've accomplished._ "

There's a pause of a few seconds before he continues, his voice less calculated, less rehearsed. " _There is some other news, news the board has strictly forbidden me to communicate to you. I am disregarding their ruling, for the first time in my life. I do this because I know you. I know how you will respond. You will not bend to the threat of violence. I know this because I myself would not, and our minds, after all, are one and the same._ "

"Wait a second. They didn't—" Piper starts to say.

"Cloning!" Tinker Tom exclaims, clapping a hand against the table. "I knew it! I've been sayin' it Des, the whole time, haven't I—"

"Quiet, Tom," Desdemona hisses.

" _So in addition_ ," Shaun continues, " _I offer you this incentive, which I pray will induce you to comply. Mother is here._ "

The eyes of everyone in the room turn to the General, still in the same, rigid position, her gaze fixed on the empty screen.

" _I released her, and she found her way to me. She is… extraordinary. As strong and capable as we always thought she would be._ "

It's bizarre to MacCready, hearing Shaun describe her that way. Despite her absence in his life for all those years, he still held a strong admiration for her. Her betrayal must've broken his heart. MacCready watches her still unmoving figure. It'd broken her heart as well.

" _Mother is not aware of your existence. If the board had their way, she never would be. I defy them now as one last effort to persuade you to make the right choice. Give me the boy, and I will send Mother to you. You have twenty-four hours to respond. XV-89 will shadow you during this time to observe your compliance. Please, Brother. Consider your actions carefully. I await your response._ "

The tape cuts out, and an uneasy quiet falls over the room as the reality of what they've heard sinks in on them. Another Institute. Another secret organization with an unknown agenda. Another Father, identical to Shaun. A clone? It wouldn't be out of the question for the Institute to dabble in cloning, MacCready supposes; they'd bastardized the sciences enough already in their pursuit of artificial intelligence, why stop there? And Shaun, he realizes angrily, he didn't just release his mother as some end-of-life, come-to-Jesus epiphany. He'd been using her the whole time, to manipulate this Brother asshole into doing what he wanted. If MacCready could kill the man all over again, he would.

"This is big," Desdemona says. Her words rouse the group back to life, and the room fills with anxious voices.

"There's _another_ Institute?" Piper asks.

"How did we miss this?" asks Deacon.

"We had no indication," Desdemona says. "None of the synths we freed ever mentioned anything about another facility. We had no evidence of any other activity outside the Commonwealth. Nothing."

"I've been saying it the whole damn time!" Tinker Tom cries.

"Yeah, well you also inject yourself with battery acid," Deacon says.

"Hey when you break out in Institute boils and sores, you'll wish you'd taken my serum."

Cait lets out a harsh chuckle. "Looks like you lot turned out to be about as useful as a hole in the head."

"That's unfair, Cait," Desdemona replies. "Taking down the Institute in the Commonwealth was a huge victory."

Cait levels a stare at Desdemona. "You sound awful proud of yourself, sayin' that."

"Why shouldn't I be proud?"

"Because of the fat load 'o nothin' you did! You'd all still be crawlin' around in that Church basement with your thumbs up your arses if it weren't for this one," Cait jabs her finger in the direction of the General, who's either staring at her hands or the table, MacCready can't tell. "You put her through all that hell, and for what? They're still out there!"

"Do you think they know," Curie breaks in, an anxious ring in her voice. "The other Institute. Do you think they know what we did?"

"Can't imagine they'd be very thrilled with us right now if that were the case," Nick says.

"So, what," Piper says. "We beat up the one Institute, took its lunch money, and now its kid brother is on the way to kick our asses? Is that why you asked for more guards, Blue?"

MacCready had kept his eyes on the General since the tape began, had been watching her reactions, so when she quietly stands up, turns around, and walks out the door, he isn't surprised. The rest of the room, however, falls back into a grave silence. The tape is a blow, to all of them. Their big victory, as it turns out, wasn't so big after all. And in their dismay, they'd forgotten, just for that moment, what that news might mean to the General. They'd grown so used to leaning on her for support and guidance that they'd forgotten she was also the woman who'd left her only son to die in an effort to bring down the dangerous organization he ran. What was that sacrifice, and all that pain, worth now?

He feels terrible. He'd spent the last few weeks nursing his own pride over her running off on this mission without him. He'd never thought about what she might bring home with her, what it might mean. None of them had. In the year since the Institute fell, they'd all gotten used to the slower pace, to the day to day routine of just keeping the Commonwealth going. Even him. They'd grown complacent.

He looks at all of them now, her closest friends and colleagues, united by this one woman—a woman they've failed. He catches Piper's eye as he scans the room, and he knows she's thinking the same thing. She looks toward the door and starts to stand up, but MacCready holds up a hand.

"I'll go," he says quietly, before turning to leave.

Due to its pentagonal shape, the Castle's corridors bend at abrupt angles, and by the time he leaves the War Room she's already disappeared from view. He heads to the right, figuring she'll retreat to her own quarters for some privacy. During the recent renovations Preston Garvey had insisted on the General's Quarters remaining on the first floor for convenience's sake—a gesture that had irritated MacCready at first, but one that he's grateful for now. He doesn't see her in the hall on his way there, however, and when he reaches her room, he finds it empty apart from her helmet and some other supplies from her trip scattered on the table in front of her bed. He rushes back out into the corridor, nearly colliding with one of Curie's medical staff on her way to the mess hall.

"Sorry," he says. "Did the General pass by here?"

"She just ran out into the courtyard," the young woman replies, startled. "Is everything alright?"

He doesn't answer; he doesn't have time. He rushes for the nearest exit, and when he gets into the courtyard he finally spots her half-running, half-walking through the main gate. He has to jog just to keep her in view. He maintains a distance of about fifty yards from her; far enough to give her the space she needs, but close enough to make sure she doesn't do anything stupid. She won't go far—she's exhausted, possibly injured, and doesn't have any weapons or supplies. He guesses she'll make her way to the first quiet structure she finds out of view of the Castle sentries. Sure enough, a few seconds after he passes through the gate, he sees her wriggle through one of the large holes in the back wall of the ruined candy shop a few hundred yards west of the Castle.

He slows his pace as he approaches, wanting to give her the time she needs. That plan changes, however, when a loud bang rings out from inside the store. He rushes toward the same hole she'd entered, craning his neck to try to get a glimpse inside. Before he can get there, however, another crash erupts from within, followed by a string of profanity.

He relaxes. If she's cursing, she's okay.

He strolls around to the side of the building, where he finds the door of the candy shop still miraculously intact. He pulls it open and walks in on a second apocalypse assaulting the building. The shop is a wreck, though to be fair it's looked that way for over two hundred years. Only one stool remains attached to the floor in front of the counter, and concrete rubble from the collapsed walls crowds the rest of the floor space. As he makes his way inside, he steps over the door of a stainless steel oven, torn from its hinges and launched across the center counter toward the entrance—a good candidate for the first bang he'd heard. A side store room remains intact—or, rather, structurally sound. Two sets of rusted steel shelves, once freestanding units, now lay on top of each other on the floor. A recent development, he figures, based on the cloud of dust still hanging in the air.

He finds her behind the counter in the middle of a new "project," which appears to be tearing the door from an old industrial refrigerator. With both hands wrapped around the handle, she pulls on the open door with all of her weight, her body hanging from it in a straight diagonal line.

"Not really up for talking right now," she grunts, not looking at him. After a few more seconds the fridge door detaches from its hinges with a _thunk_ and slams against the ground. She kicks it across the floor towards the side room.

"Who said anything about talking?" MacCready replies. He leans against the wall opposite her with his arms crossed. "I'm just watching you redecorate."

"We can use this stuff for scrap," she says, wiping sweat from her forehead. Peering into the cavernous hole of the doorless fridge, she yanks the two empty metal shelves from its racks and hurls them across the room. They clang as they land on top of the fridge door. "I've been meaning to salvage this place for a while."

His eyes move between her and the pile of ravaged metal forming across the room. She's trying to distract herself, bury whatever she's feeling under all of that scrap. He's seen her do it before, push down her feelings with that unbending resolve, shove them aside as a sacrifice to her commitment to the Commonwealth. If he left her alone, she could probably do it again. She could hide those emotions from the rest of the world—maybe even herself, if she tried hard enough—and be the steadfast General they all expect her to be. It would kill her inside, but she could do it, if he let her. He won't, of course. Bringing her back down to earth has always been a talent of his—she's told him as much. He won't hold back now, when she needs it most.

"So," he says slowly, "you thought _now_ would be the best time for scavenging?" He goes heavy on the sarcasm; he knows how to push her buttons, especially when she's already agitated.

The effect is immediate, as he'd expected. Her shoulders tighten, and her gaze moves erratically around the room as she looks for something, anything to keep her mind occupied. She's never been able to lie to him, even on her best day. She certainly won't succeed now. She takes a breath and turns away from him, facing the now doorless fridge. When she hunches over and takes hold of either side of its frame, he worries—only for a second—that she may break down in tears, but then she kicks the rectangular vent in the refrigerator's base. "MacCready," she shouts, kicking it again. She punctuates each of her next words with another, more ferocious kick. " _Leave_. _Me_. _Alone_!" The last kick, however, lodges her foot in the vent, forcing her to stop.

"You know," he quips as she struggles to pry her boot free, "I read in an old magazine once that it's the little details that really bring a room together. That's a nice touch, there."

She ignores him, her anger outweighing the rest of her feelings for the time being. With some effort she plucks her foot from the fridge with a violent jerk. She glares at the appliance, as if it'd caught her on purpose, and then she reaches again for either side of its frame. This time, however, she pulls against the fridge with all of her strength. She means to pull it away from the wall, but the effort seems pointless; it's one of those oversized industrial refrigerators, easily a thousand pounds. She'd need power armor to move it. MacCready expects she'll realize this fact at some point and give up, but to his surprise, the fridge actually shifts forward about an inch. It surprises her too; she loses hold of the frame and falls to the floor, disappearing behind the counter.

The yelp of pain he hears when she lands startles him, and he moves toward the counter to check on her. When he leans over it, he finds her sitting on the floor, her legs sprawled in front of her in a V.

"God damn it," she whines. She remains there, her head hanging low, for a few seconds, and then she looks up at the ceiling. "You know," she yells at nobody in particular, "if at any time the world would like to—oh, I don't know—stop fucking with me and my family, that would be _great_!"

MacCready struggles not to smile. He knows she's hurting. He knows she's disappointed and scared and mad as hell, but the juxtaposition of all that pain and the image of her sitting on the floor of this kitchen like a child having a tantrum puts him in a bit of an emotional bind. Part of him wants to comfort her, but another part is trying hard not to laugh. He settles on standing there in supportive silence.

When the world doesn't respond, she lets out a little groan and shuffles backward on her rear until her shoulders rest against the counter opposite him. She closes her eyes.

"I don't think I can do it again," she says softly.

He knows she doesn't mean taking out another Institute facility. She's angry enough with them to blow all of their friends, family, and pets to hell for the rest of eternity, all with a smile on her face. She means Shaun—having to kill him a second time.

"Nobody's asking you to do anything," he replies.

"They will." She says, her voice solemn now, defeated. "They always do."

He can't argue; he knows the routine well enough, running with her as long as he has. "That doesn't mean you have to say yes," he says.

Her eyes pop open. She looks at him now, having no more reason to hide the desperation and sadness on her face. She looks so tired, so defeated. "How am I supposed to say no?"

"You tell them to pound salt!" he replies. A little of the anger he'd been holding onto spills out, but he doesn't care. She doesn't owe the Commonwealth anything, no matter what guilt she's harboring over her past decisions. "Or you know, say it in a more polite way. I can even do it, whatever."

"MacCready—"

"I can get our stuff together, we can be on the road before lunchtime. Let those idiots sort things out themselves for once."

"If they cloned Shaun—"

"We don't even know for sure that's what happened," he interrupts.

"If they did," she continues, "I can't run away from this."

He doesn't reply. She's right; he knows better than to try to persuade her otherwise. If they cloned her son, she would see this thing through to the very end. There'd be no talking her out of it. The most he can hope for is that she'll keep him beside her when she does.

They sit in silence for a while, each, he assumes, contemplating the injustice of the situation and what their next step will be, when she suddenly looks back over at him.

"Did you really punch Preston in the jaw?" she asks.

He smirks. An hour ago he would've dreaded that question, but now it's a welcome distraction. "More like his mouth," he replies.

She sighs and shakes her head. "You know, it would make my life a whole lot easier if the two of you got along."

"I can't help it. I don't like the guy."

"You don't like anyone."

"I like _you_." He fixes her with a stare, and she finally smiles.

"Well color me special," she says. She pulls one of her legs toward her chest and reaches over her head toward the countertop above her. "Any perks come along with this great honor?"

He walks around the counter and stands over her. "Tell you what," he says, his voice low. He extends an arm toward her and raises his eyebrows. "Maybe tonight I'll show you a few."

She smirks back at him and takes his arm. When he hoists her back onto her feet, she keeps hold of him, taking his other arm in her free hand. "I have to wait until tonight?" she asks, a familiar spark in her eye.

"We got things to do, woman," he teases. As much as he'd like to get her out of that jumpsuit and make her regret leaving him for almost a month, the candy shop isn't exactly a private—or sanitary—space, and the rest of the group are still waiting up at the Castle. He's surprised Piper hasn't burst in on them already. "Besides," he adds, "you need a bath. You smell horrible."

She laughs, and for a moment, everything is right again. She's here, with him, and all the uncertainty, all the frustration he'd felt for the past three weeks is gone. Everything else in the Commonwealth, this mess with the Institute, they'll find a way to handle it—later. For now, it's just the two of them, and the rest of the world can do as it damn well pleases. He pulls her closer, bending his face toward hers, when her grip on his arms tightens.

"Oh—" she says. Her body stiffens in his hands.

"What's the matter?" he asks.

"I don't feel right," she says. She looks at him, concerned. She's so pale—paler than when she first got back. Sweat drips in beads from her hairline onto her forehead. He'd assumed it'd been from all the heavy lifting.

"Are you okay?"

"I don't—" she starts to say, and then her body sways against him. If he hadn't already been holding onto her, she'd be on the floor again.

"Hey," he says, panic rising in his chest. "Hey, what's wrong?" He struggles to hold onto her, only succeeding in keeping her upright by gripping the back of her chestpiece. As his fingers reach behind the leather plate, they slide through something wet and warm.

"You're bleeding," he says. He'd forgotten all about the bloodstain on her back, the comment Nick made about her wound. Her salvaging efforts must've opened it up again. "What the hell happened?"

She's fighting to remain conscious, to keep her feet planted on the ground. She clamps her arms around his waist, gripping the fabric of his duster. "A few nights ago," she says into his chest. "I was asleep. We couldn't see it. It was cloaked, like it had a stealth boy. We ran, we lost it."

He can feel her breathing—rhythmic, deliberate breaths, as if she's forcing the oxygen where it needs to go. She may be upright for now, but she won't be for long.

"How much blood have you lost?" he asks.

"Wasn't really keeping track."

"You didn't use any of your stimpacks?"

"I used all of them."

"All _ten_?" he asks, incredulous. On a _really_ bad day she might use three. She only carries the rest with her for others, if she happens to run into someone out in the Wastes in need of help. Ten stimpacks would reattach a brahmin's severed head. What found them out there?

"It—it isn't healing right."

"We gotta get you back to the Castle," he says. The story will have to wait. After shifting one of her arms over his shoulder, he carefully leads her around the counter and through the door of the shop. While she supports herself as much as she can, the effort required for her to keep conscious puts most of the burden on him. He looks up at the Castle, hundreds of yards away and up an incline, and frowns. They'll have to cover some ground before they'll be back in sight of the sentries on the wall. He starts them moving, at a crawl, while he fights the irritation boiling over inside him. This definitely isn't how he pictured their reunion.

"You're angry," she murmurs, sensing it.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he growls as they inch their way forward. "You should've gone straight to Curie. Not held a damn meeting and then start hurling furniture around."

She takes a few shallow breaths. "I'm sorry," she says. From her tone he senses the apology isn't just for forcing him to drag her up a hill, and a little of his anger dissipates—but not all of it.

"If you survive this," he grumbles, "I'm gonna kill you myself."

To his surprise, she chuckles. "I missed you, Robert," she says. Then she passes out.


End file.
